


The World's Only Consulting Auror

by DizzyDrea



Series: A Study in Magic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crime Scenes, Gen, Magic, Sherlock is annoying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a Ministry matter now, and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Auror was now on the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World's Only Consulting Auror

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know where this came from, except that my friend Tammy and I have been talking a lot about Harry Potter lately. And then I watched _A Study in Pink_ with my folks recently, which got me thinking about Sherlock. This is my first _Sherlock_ story, and I quite enjoyed writing it. Don't know if I'll write more, but it's such a lovely sandbox to play in that Muse may not be able to resist.
> 
> Credit also must go to [BeautifulFiction](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction) for her fantastic story, [The Stars Move Still](http://archiveofourown.org/works/578307), which got me to thinking about Sherlock as a wizard in the first place.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Hartswood Films, the BBC, Masterpiece, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and a lot of other people who aren't me. Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, and a lot of other people who aren't me. I'm doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

The alley was dank and dark, in the way that so many parts of London's underbelly were. Sunlight didn't reach the ground, obscured as it was by the pre-war stone buildings to either side. The alley itself was littered with bins and crates, scattered with papers and other refuse, the detritus of the city crawling into its darkest corners.

They'd apparated into the deepest part of the alley, far from prying eyes, so it took a moment for John Watson's eyes to adjust. As was typical, his companion refused to wait and simply charged on ahead.

John watched him go, great coat swirling around him like a black, billowing cloud as he headed for the cluster of people near the alley's entrance. Sherlock Holmes was a force of nature on a good day, and an absolute terror on a bad day. But good or bad, when there was a case the Yard couldn't suss out, they called the world's only Consulting Detective.

John took the walk at a more leisurely pace. He didn't have to; his limp, psychosomatic as it had been, had been banished within 24 hours of meeting Sherlock, but he found it easier to just stay out of the man's way when he was assessing a crime scene. If he needed John's input, meager though it may be, he'd ask for it.

"John."

"Greg."

John offered a smile to the Detective Inspector, nodding his greeting briefly before returning his attention to Sherlock as he prowled around the body laying prone near the alley's opening. Greg Lestrade was a good man and a good detective, and one who wasn't afraid to admit when he was stumped. And he was one of the few people who could actually tolerate Sherlock, who actively sought him out and didn't take his cold and abrupt demeanor personally. In John's mind, that made him a saint.

"No Sally today?" John asked as his gaze swept the crime scene, taking in the uniforms and Forensic Service Techs moving about.

"She's just come off a double," Greg said. "I told her to go home, get some rest."

"I'll bet that went over well," John said.

"Better when I told her I'd be calling Sherlock for this one."

John snorted. The mutual dislike between Sally and Sherlock was well documented, and any excuse to keep the open hostility to a minimum was absolutely appreciated. John didn't relish listening to the two of them snipe at each other, so he was just as glad that she wasn't there, even if his doctor's instincts were cataloging what she ought to be doing in the wake of such a long shift. He rolled his shoulders, shrugging off those thoughts. She probably wouldn't have taken his advice, no matter how well-intentioned it would have been, so instead he refocused on the matter at hand.

"So, what've we got?"

Greg crossed his arms over his chest, his mouth pinched into an unhappy moue. "Passers-by found the guy, already dead. Looks like a heart attack or something but…" He shrugged. "Something seems off to me."

"How very astute of you, Lestrade," Sherlock muttered as he bent over the body.

The click of a camera nearby caught John's attention. Anderson stood at the foot of the body, taking pictures of the man's shoes presumably. He could see Sherlock's temper rise with every click of the shutter, but before he could intervene, Sherlock looked up, spearing the other man with a venomous glare.

"What?" Anderson barked, though John was fairly certain he knew exactly _what_. 

He suppressed the grin threatening to break out over his face. There was no end to the number of people that drove Sherlock mad, but Anderson would probably be near the top of the list, were such a list ever to have existed. Which it most definitely did not.

With obvious effort, Sherlock refocused his attention on the body before him. John's gaze flicked absently over the man, what little he'd learned about observation from Sherlock coming to the fore: he was middle-aged, dressed immaculately from Saville Row complete with a camel hair coat and fine silk scarf. The watch glinting at his wrist quite likely cost more than John could hope to make at his locum job at St. Mungo's in a year. Wealthy, no doubt, whether self-made or inherited John couldn't tell, though he felt sure Sherlock had already deduced it.

"So?" Greg asked.

Sherlock didn't even react, though John suspected that was more down to the fact that he wasn't ready to speak than to the possibility he was ignoring the DI.

"John, a moment?" he said instead, beckoning him with a quick flick of the wrist.

John sighed, glancing at Greg with his most patiently put-upon look. Greg smirked in reply, but made no move to restrict him from approaching the body.

Crouching down across the body from Sherlock, John let his gaze wander over the man up close. "What am I looking for?"

"Obvious," Sherlock said. "Cause of death."

"Right," John muttered. It had been like this since the beginning, since that very first case they'd worked together. Sherlock was either unaware, unwilling to consider, or more likely, simply uncaring that John wasn't a pathologist.

He let his gaze skim over the man's skin—pale, but that could be down to the fact that it was London in winter—his clothing—rumpled from his collapse, quite likely, but otherwise in good condition—before shifting to the area around the body. Nothing immediately presented itself as a potential cause of death, and since the clothing wasn't ripped or blood-stained, he'd ruled out stabbing or shooting. He reached his gloved hand out and pulled the man's collar down, but didn't find any marks there, either. So, not strangulation. He tugged at the man's eyelids, and there he found petechial hemorrhaging.

"Hmmm," John murmured. "Deprived of oxygen peri-mortem. Not strangled though; no marks on his neck."

Sherlock tugged at the man's tie, loosening it and unbuttoning his shirt to expose his chest.

"Hey!" Anderson shouted, but he went ignored in light of the sight that greeted them both.

John raised his eyebrow. "How did you know to look?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up, brushing the London grime from his suit pants with his gloved hands. "This man was murdered."

"You're sure?" Greg asked, taking a few steps forward. His frown indicated that, while he might be glad his suspicion had been vindicated, he'd rather it not have been.

"Of course, I'm sure," Sherlock said. John again found himself suppressing a grin at his tone of voice. Sherlock managed to quite effectively say _you idiot_ without actually ever _saying_ the words. "This man is a wizard, and he was killed using an Unforgivable Curse."

All eyes snapped to Sherlock as his words hung in the air. John felt a cold chill slither down his spine. There hadn't been an open killing using an Unforgivable Curse in years, not since they'd finally defeated He Who Must Not Be Named. But there was no mistaking what they'd seen: someone had killed this man, and done it with a curse.

"How?" Greg asked, sharp and cold now that he knew what he was dealing with. "How do you know that? It's not like you can tell he's a wizard, just by looking at him."

Which was true, to a degree. Or, at least, this time. The man was dressed as a Muggle would on his way to the office, nothing mismatched or inappropriate, not a wizard's robe in sight. And there'd been no wand secreted in a pocket that John could see. And yet, clearly, he'd been killed by another wizard. The last time the Death Eaters had gone around killing indiscriminately, it had been during the Dark Lord's second rise to power. But they'd all been either killed or run to ground in the wake of the last war. 

That was what the Ministry was saying, anyway. What they were all staring at was proof that wasn't so much true.

Sherlock knelt down again, lifting the dead man's hand to examine his fingers. "Callouses on his fingers indicate he uses a wand. His clothes are of a superior quality, but clearly Muggle in origin, suggesting his family is Muggle, even if he's a wizard. And his chest," and here Sherlock grabbed a fistful of fabric and tugged, exposing the man's chest to the meager light in the alley, "bears the striking marks of someone who's been tortured."

All eyes shifted to the dead man's chest. There, just peeking out from beneath his shirt, was the distinctive spider-web scar of an Unforgivable Curse, tinged green and snaking out from the epicenter high on his chest.

"You're joking," Anderson scoffed, turning to the DI. "He's joking. He can't really tell."

Sherlock's expression twisted into a snear. "I'm not surprised a squib like you couldn't figure it out. You're dreadful with that camera, by the way. Too much magical energy, even if you can't properly wield a spell. Your family must have been relieved when you were offered this job. Ministry of Magic Liason to Scotland Yard, is it?"

Anderson choked a bit on Sherlock's words, sputtering incoherently until Greg put an end to it. "Enough." He turned to Sherlock. "You've got to give me more than callouses and a funny burn pattern on his chest."

Sherlock visibly bit back whatever cutting words were on the tip of his tongue, instead casting around the alley for whatever it was he was looking for. He drew his wand out of a hidden pocket inside his Belstaff, and with a quick flick of his wrist, light began to glow from the tip. Using it rather like a Muggle would a torch, he began searching the darkest corners of the alley. John realized rather quickly what he was looking for, and pulled out his own wand from inside his coat, muttering the same spell Sherlock had used as he followed the other man's cue.

A few moments' searching, and Sherlock gave a triumphant cry. "Here you are, you little devil."

He stepped out from behind a bin, something dark in his hand. John stepped closer, recognizing immediately what it was: Sherlock had the dead man's wand in his hand. 

"Ten inches, hickory, unicorn hair core, if I'm not mistaken," he said speculatively. "Quite unusual for a man, but not unheard of."

"Is that—" Greg started to ask, only to be cut off.

"His wand," Sherlock said, confirming everyone's suspicions. "Yes."

He turned it over in his hand, as if the wand would simply give up its secrets. It wasn't that simple, John knew. Although, if he remembered correctly, a skilled wizard could call back the last spell a wand had cast. 

As if in answer to his thoughts, Sherlock touched the end of his wand to the one found behind the bin. Both wand tips glowed, the light spreading until Sherlock's face was lit by their pale glow. When he pulled his wand back, the other wand continued to glow until it cast off its light to flow down the alley in the shape of a snake.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, then flicked his own wand. A raven burst forth from the end, soaring out over the alley following the same path as the snake had just seconds before. Greg, obviously shocked by this turn of events, glanced between Sherlock and the two creatures disappearing down the alley.

"What—"

"A Patronus," Sherlock said, answering the obvious question. "His last spell was a Patronus. Since it is doubtful he was attacked by Dementors, it's more likely he was sending a message to someone. We shall know soon enough who it was."

Meanwhile, Anderson snorted, clearly unimpressed by this turn of events. "You expect us to believe that? What's to say you didn't do all this yourself?"

"Anderson," Greg said, clear warning in his tone.

"What," Sherlock said, completely ignoring Greg, "would I have to gain?"

"Oh come off it," Anderson said, shaking his head. "You think I don't know? You went to Durmstrang. They teach the Dark Arts there, don't they?"

John's head whipped around, surprised. He'd known that he and Sherlock hadn't been at school together, but he'd always assumed it was because he'd finished before Sherlock had arrived at Hogwarts. Anderson was saying that Sherlock hadn't even gone to Hogwarts, an idea John found curious. It was true that many of the wealthiest families in Europe sent their children to schools other than Hogwarts, and he'd heard the rumors about the Holmes family's loyalties, but he'd never even considered that Sherlock might not have attended England's premier wizarding school.

"Look, Anderson—"

But John was cut off, and by Sherlock, no less.

"Of course I went to Durmstrang," he said, as if that were the only logical thing in the world.

"And they teach the Dark Arts there, don't they?" Anderson said. He was persistent; John had to give him credit for that, if nothing else. He certainly didn't have any kind of self-preservation instinct.

"If one does not learn how to use the Unforgivable Curses, one cannot protect oneself," Sherlock said. "Therefore, we learn them, precisely so that we can recognize them when they're being used, and defend ourselves accordingly."

Anderson curled his lip in distaste.

"Wait, what's a Durmstrang?" Greg asked, clearly confused.

When it became obvious that Sherlock wouldn't answer, John stepped in. "Durmstrang is a magical academy in Eastern Europe. It's one of three on the Continent: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. There are rumors, but—well, let's just say that there were a goodly number of Death Eaters who were alumni of Durmstrang."

"What the bloody hell's a Death Eater?" Greg asked.

John sighed. It was always difficult explaining these things to outsiders. Technically speaking, they weren't supposed to explain at all, but Greg already knew about the wizarding world from his contact with Sherlock, and the more he knew, the better he'd be able to spot something untoward.

"The Death Eaters were followers of He Who—"

"Oh for—" Sherlock interrupted. "His name was Voldemort. Don't give him more power than was his due by refusing to speak his name."

Anderson visibly flinched at the mention of the name, while John merely cringed. He had no problem saying the name himself, believing as he did that a name in and of itself didn't hold any power unless you gave it that power by word or deed. But he was also sensitive to the fears and superstitions of others, and so mostly declined to say it out loud out of respect.

"And just because Sherlock went to Durmstrang doesn't mean he was in league with the man," John said, just to be clear.

"Just you keep telling yourself that, mate," Anderson said. The smug look on his face made even John feel nauseous.

"None of which explains this," Greg said, indicating the body in the alley and the wand still clutched in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again. "It's obvious. Whoever this man was, he was meeting someone in this alley. The meeting went… badly, and he was killed."

"You're not thinking Avada Kadavra, are you?" John asked. He hadn't had much occasion to see killing curses at St. Mungo's, but he'd seen a few in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts. None of those wounds looked like this.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "His face is frozen in fear, his hands curled in on themselves, suggesting he died in a tremendous amount of pain. Avada Kadavra kills almost instantaneously, leaving the victim no time to react. Cruciatus, when wielded by an adept practitioner, can torture its victim for long minutes, drawing out the pain. If used for long enough, the victim will go mad. I can only surmise that the Cruciatus Curse caused this man to have a heart attack. His attacker likely did not intend to kill him, and when he died, took steps to conceal his own involvement."

"Throwing away the wand," John said, following Sherlock's logic. "But he couldn't do anything about the scarring on his chest, and if the victim was able to send a message to someone, our perpetrator has likely headed off to find that person."

"Indeed," Sherlock said, looking pleased at John's deductions. Turning to Anderson, he gave a distasteful snear before addressing the man. "I suggest you contact the Ministry. This is obviously no longer a case for Scotland Yard—" he turned to Greg "—apologies, but you're not equipped to deal with this."

Greg raised his hands. "You'll get no argument from me, mate. I'd just as soon leave all this to you lot."

Just then, Sherlock's raven Patronus soared into the alley and alighted on his shoulder. He leaned his head to the side, almost as if he were snuggling into the thing, despite it being non-corporeal. The raven shimmered for a moment, then dissipated in a burst of sparkling light. All three men just stared at Sherlock, waiting for him to give them some explanation.

"Come, John. We've business elsewhere," he said.

He turned in a great swirl of his Belstaff, striding back into the deep recessed of the alley. John marveled again at how little he resembled a wizard, with his immaculately tailored suits and the air of authority and confidence that said that he belonged wherever he was. If John hadn't known better—and growing up a Muggle, he definitely knew better—he'd have said that Sherlock was just another businessman going about his day. 

Seconds later, a great crack echoed off the walls of the alley, indicating Sherlock's departure. John sighed. It wasn't the first time he'd been left behind at a crime scene, and it would likely not be the last.

"What? So that's it?" Anderson asked. "His Majesty comes in, pronounces this a wizarding crime and then leaves?"

John looked at the man, seeing him in a new light thanks to Sherlock's deductions. He almost felt sorry for Anderson. Being the only member of a magical family who couldn't perform magic had to have been awful, and it explained so much about his attitude. But, this was a Ministry matter now, and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Auror was now on the case. And just as he wasn't called in to Scotland Yard cases unless they were nigh on impossible to solve, he wasn't called in by the Ministry unless the case involved the Dark Arts.

"Sorry," John said, not really meaning it. Much as he might protest Sherlock's treatment of the forensics analyst, he did have a tendency to grate on one's last nerve. 

Anderson opened his mouth to protest further, but Greg effectively cut him off. "Leave it. I'm just as happy to let these boys have it. One less crime I have to investigate."

John nodded in acknowledgement, though he could still see the tightness around Greg's eyes that said he was still uneasy with who or what killed their victim. John could understand that. He'd been a Muggle himself until he'd gotten the invitation to attend Hogwarts on his eleventh birthday, so he could completely understand being at sea in the world of magic. Greg saw all manner of strange crimes in his job, but the ones he'd learned to recognize as having magical implications were always the worst. The things one human could do to another were bad enough; add magic to that and the results were sometimes infinitely worse.

"Make sure you inform the Ministry about all this," John said, turning to Anderson. He knew Sherlock wouldn't; the man would be too quickly wrapped up in the details of the case to even spare a thought for notifying anyone. "They'll need to know about it sooner than later."

Anderson scowled, but gave a tight nod of acquiescence just the same. John turned to follow his flatmate down the alley, stopping just a few paces away from the crime scene and turning around to face the others. He raised a hand, receiving an acknowledging nod from Greg, and no reaction at all from Anderson, who was too busy talking into his mobile phone. John thought it an incongruous sight, a wizard on the phone, but he knew Anderson wasn't talking to someone at the Ministry. Likely, he was talking to someone back at the Yard who'd pass the message along. Anderson wasn't the only squib embedded at the Yard; he was just the least friendly.

John took one last look around, then closed his eyes and focused. He had a good idea of where Sherlock had gone, so he narrowed his thoughts to just that place, took a deep breath and disapparated with a resounding crack.

~Finis

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I know, none of the Unforgivable Curses ever left a mark on its victim in JKR canon, so I've taken a bit of liberty here. Also, I have no idea if a Patronus can deliver a message back to its creator, so again, I've bent things a little to suit my needs.


End file.
